


The Lying, Dying Detective

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Confused John, Confused Sherlock, Doctor!John, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Illnesses, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnlock Angst, M/M, Mary faked her death, Mary is the villain, Medical Procedures, Mental Breakdown, Pain, Panic, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Poisoning, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Serious Illness, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock's POV, Sick Character, Sick Sherlock, Slow Burn, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 18:30:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9197948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock is dying of a mysterious, unknown ailment.When he realises the truth behind his deteriorating condition, he purposely keeps John in the dark.Because lying is the only way Sherlock Holmes knows how to save John Watson.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J_Baillier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/gifts), [TearStainedAshes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearStainedAshes/gifts), [kingtatsunari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingtatsunari/gifts).



> This story is based off a meta I wrote about my speculations on TST and what is going to happen in TLD.
> 
> (http://allroadsleadbacktobakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/155383225227/marys-trial-run-meta)
> 
> I would advise not reading it if you haven't seen "The Six Thatchers" yet. 
> 
> My theories/ speculations:
> 
> A) Mary's death was fake. 
> 
> B) She was holding Molly hostage at the end of TST, which is why Molly appeared so OOC. 
> 
> C) The letter Sherlock was passed contains Ricin, a highly poisonous protein that has been used in assassination attempts before. 
> 
> D) Sherlock will be seriously ill in "The Lying Detective", as opposed to faking it, but he will lie to try and protect John from the truth.

Sherlock hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived at the Watson household. He’d weighed up all of the variables before making the choice to go, and had played out a variety of scenarios that could take place. With a little encouragement from Mrs Hudson he’d concluded that he would have to face John. 

Upon his arrival, Molly stepped out of the door. It struck him that her complexion looked paler than usual. Her eyes held an emotion that he could not recognise or pinpoint. Whereas Sherlock had the ability to deduce a crime scene, it was John who had always aided him in solving the puzzles that involved human elements. He swept a glance over her, taking in her stern expression and the hostility that could be found in the tautness of her muscles.

His gaze fell upon Rosamund, surveying to see if she was OK. He noted that she seemed a little restless, no doubt picking up on the stifling tension that was permeating the air. Otherwise the little girl looked healthy, pink faced and well cared for. Sherlock envied how blissfully unaware Rosamund was about the grim end her mother had met. How nice it must be to be gifted with childish naivety, to be shrouded from pain and death. It was something that could not be said for himself. 

Rosamund looked at him inquisitively, her eyes making her look so strikingly similar to Mary, that it was like salt being added to an already gaping wound. The unexpected tug he felt in his chest reminded him that he was as fond of the baby as he was of her father. He wanted to reach out and take her in his arms, hold her close, whisper gentle promises that he'll do all he can to protect her from the harshness of the world.

He doesn’t miss the way Molly tightened her grip on the little girl.

“Hi.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how to respond. He doesn’t do this; chatting. He routed around in his mind palace just to find the right thing to say, each word delicately picked, as he tip-toed precariously on egg shells. 

“I just wondered how things are going…and if there’s anything I can do?”

Those words, once they’re out of his mouth, sound empty and hollow. If it wasn’t for him they wouldn’t be in this situation. He should have anticipated that Mary was going to be in danger, and he should have protected her from AMMO.

He can hear his brothers advice after the shooting, scathing and interfering.

_“Some things can’t be fixed, brother mine. I would leave well alone, if I were you.”_

For the first time in his life Sherlock had considered taking on board what Mycroft said. He was out of his depths here. By approaching John he would be wading in to even deeper waters. He’d run the risk of drowning, John Watson’s rage and bitterness washing over him like an unstoppable tide. It was a risk he'd been willing to take. He would happily choke on the air in his own lungs if it meant it would fix things.

As he waited for Molly to reply he could already his chest constricted, so unbearably tight that his breaths started to come out in short, sharp bursts.

The piece of paper she handed him didn't do anything to to soothe him. If anything the edges of his world appear even more jagged and rough cutting than before. It's like the universe is mocking him.

“It’s, er, it’s from John.”

He shake off the feeling that this letter is a goodbye. The stark white paper screams of finality. There had been a time where he’d thought John marrying Mary had been an end of an era. He’d merely been looking into a mirror of his future. The end of his time with John had been a predetermined destiny. He’d been running away from it for a very long time, just as the merchant in those childish stories Mycroft used to tell him had run away from death. Now it was time to embrace the end; like a soldier.

“Right,”

He gripped the paper tightly, trying to disguise how his hand now shook. He was better than this. Stronger. He wouldn’t allow Molly to see how such a simple act shook him to the core.

“You don’t need to read it now.”

The tone in her voice made it sound more like an instruction than a suggestion. Perhaps she didn’t want to witness the downfall of Sherlock Holmes. Had he become so obvious? Mycroft had teased him about not being able to tell the difference between Sherlock and sentiment. For years he’d tried to appear to the world as an aloof, uncaring sociopath. Perhaps for the first time in a long time the truth was beginning to pour through the cracks.

The way Molly looked at him made Sherlock’s stomach twist into a tight knot. He found a taunting mixture of pity and sympathy there that made him wince uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. He says…John said if you were coming around asking for him, offering to help…”

“Yes?” Sherlock hated the way eagerness leaked into his voice, how when even faced with Johns’s rejection he still riled for his attention.

“He said he’d rather have anyone but you.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, not out of shock, but because that one sentence confirmed everything he’d already concluded.

Then, to hammer home the message, she forcefully said. “Anyone.”

He bowed his head, resigned. Molly stepped inside and closed the door behind her, shutting Sherlock out.

He took one final glance at the house, seeing a tiny shift in the blinds, Molly staring through to ensure he’d understood.

Sherlock’s understanding went deeper than Molly could ever know. Without even reading the letter he knew that John was saying goodbye. John Watson was a man of few words. The image of him choking on his forgiveness for Sherlock on bonfire night seems like a ghost of a memory now.

There had been a time where Sherlock had been the kindest, most human, human being John had ever known.

Now Sherlock stood for everything John hated.

As he retreated, he pulled his coat collar upwards, sinking deeper into his armour. The sound of John’s gut-wrenching screams haunted him. Behind his closed eyelids he can picture the fraction of a moment where John lost the ability to breathe after Mary’s body slumped listlessly.

He’d sounded like he was being strangled; a sound so inhuman and yet so unspeakably human at the same time. Sherlock had tried to rationalise that sound over and over. It was just John’s body not knowing what to do, or how to handle the sudden rush of adrenaline and grief all at once, there was too much input for him to bear and it burst out of him in violent grunts and screams. It doesn’t matter how logical Sherlock tried to make it, not when he knows that he will never be able to shut out those sounds or what they mean.

* * *

 

  
When he got back to Baker Street, he ignored Mrs Hudson’s plea for him to eat.

Instead he locked himself in his room, placing the note John gave him directly by his bedside. He couldn’t bear to read it. Not just yet, because then it would make the truth tangible; something solid and real. That was not something Sherlock was prepared for. 

He reached beneath his bed and pulled out a familiar box. The letter could wait until the morning. He’d told Mrs Hudson that work was the best thing for sorrow, but that wasn’t entirely true. There was something else as equally effective at drowning out sorrows. 7% effective to be precise.

That night Sherlock’s world was bathed in the cold hues of cocaine. It’s enough to drown out John’s screams. In this in-between world of not-quite-reality he could pretend that everything was OK.

Eventually, unconsciousness took him, and he gladly slipped into the darkness.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I want to gift this work to :
> 
> A) @TearstainedAshes for, as always, being my conductor of light and fueling my writing. 
> 
> B) @J_Baillier for writing such a gripping and heart-warming sick!fic and reminding me how much I love to put these characters through the ringer. Your writing is inspirational. 
> 
> C) @AgentBarnes for leaving me such a lovely review on my Sherlock X Eternal Sunshine fic. Your kind words gave me the push I needed to pick up my laptop and start typing.


End file.
